


Alone

by Jinmukang



Series: Whumptober 2020 [11]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Confinement, Crying, Dark, Defiance, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Force-Feeding, Gaslighting, Isolation, Kidnapping, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Restraints, Stockholm Syndrome, Struggling, Threats, Whumptober 2020, but again, he needs a hug that he consented to, no.11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:55:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26950258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinmukang/pseuds/Jinmukang
Summary: When Dick wakes up, he's restrained. Blindfolded. Deafened. When he wakes up, he's helpless in the clutches of a delusional man who believes he's doing all of this to help him.Dick disagrees, but it's not like he has much of a choice.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Series: Whumptober 2020 [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946413
Comments: 27
Kudos: 171
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AuroraKant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraKant/gifts).



> ya'll remember when i said Spotlight was the second most dark fic? well. here's the darkest. please keep warnings very much in mind. this isn't a very happy feel good fic at all. dick's put through the ringer in this one. please let me know if i missed any triggers in the tags and i will happily add them.
> 
> Also! Aurora this one's for you. Bet you didn't expect me to gift a fic to you, but you gave me the idea, therefore this is now yours. I hope you like it!
> 
> enjoy!

If there's one thing Dick can confidently say that he absolutely hates, it's being restrained. He's learnt to repress his hatred for the total and complete lack of movement and control of his own body over the years—because the last thing you should do while locked up or tied down is show the captor that you're uncomfortable. And yes, it did get easier over the years. Waking up with his wrists above his head, locked in chains, or his back pressed to a metal chair with coarse rope hardly bothered him anymore. He's even experimented with bondage during sex, and while it wasn't the biggest kink of his, it  _ was  _ somewhat enjoyable with the right partners. 

But deep down, when it came down to it, losing control of his movements and senses rubbed him in all the wrong ways. 

Which is why when he wakes up on his sides his arms wrapped around his chest and hugged around towards his back by stiff sleeves he's instantly on edge. He shifts, and swallows down a grown when his legs keep connected together at the ankles by what feels like thick, padded shackles. Again,  _ Feels _ like, because when he opens his eyes, he finds them bound by something soft and cloth-like. The cloth wraps around the entirety of his head and over his ears. And speaking of his ears, it almost feels like someone pushed extra cotton into the canals, making it exceptionally difficult to hear. 

He tries to shift, frustration crawling into his gut when the straps of what’s definitely a straight jacket presses harshly into multiple places of his body. There's no give. He can immediately tell that this is an honest to God  _ straight jacket _ . Not a fake one with makeshift straps sewn on to simply look real or do the job. This is the kind of straight jacket the Joker would be put in. And Dick—while he's flexible and trained to escape binds like this—knows that something like this might be out of his league.

Now that he knows he's not getting out of this, at least not while laying on the ground, he takes stock of his memories. He doesn't feel groggy or drugged. Honestly, it feels like he's just woken up from a nap. Which is strange because he could have sworn the last thing he remembers is driving home from work, mentally planning out his night routine for patrol. 

Which brings up the question if he's Dick Grayson… or Nightwing. 

He shifts again and tries to pay attention to the fabric against his body—under the straight jacket and around his limbs.

He quickly becomes aware that the parts of skin all under his knees are bare, and when he tugs his arms and twists his fingers he can feel the straight jacket directly on his fingertips. The collar of the straight jacket lays loosely around the base of his neck, but the clothes he's wearing sits skin-tight just below his jaw. 

Okay, Nightwing then. Nightwing, but without his gloves and boots. Which is good and bad in a multitude of different ways. 

The on edge feeling inside his chest grows as he slowly begins to work himself up so he's sitting. The straps of the jacket rub raw against him, especially on his biceps and groin. His back hits a hard wall, and he leans against it while bringing his legs up so his knees are kissing his chest. He can't hear or see anything—which leaves him severely vulnerable, especially when you consider that he is restrained rather professionally. He tests the give between the shackles on his ankles, and he finds there's hardly any. Maybe just an inch of cord. Not enough to walk, hop, or shuffle. He needs his hands, or at least his eyes, to know more about the likelihood of him picking them. Right now though, the likelihood sits stubbornly at zero.

Okay. So not all of his senses are taken from him. His mouth isn't gagged, so he can speak and taste. He might be restrained, but leaning against the wall and placing his bare feet on the ground gives him a chance of at least feeling someone coming before they interact with him. 

Besides that… there's not much going for him. He doesn't know where he is, or even if there's someone in the room with him that would get upset if he begins to more seriously tug at the jacket. Abductions like this are always stressful in completely unique ways because of that. 

Okay. Okay, Nightwing. You got this. 

He rolls his shoulders, grunting at the pressure that immediately intensifies on his arms and sides. He tugs his arms and tugs again, shifting to try and alleviate the yanking straps on his nether regions, but it all is too well put together. Too tightly buckled. There's absolutely no give on any strap, and continuing to tug and struggle like this will just make him look like a pathetic, flopping fish trapped outside of the water. He's a good escapist. You don't go into his line of nightlife and not know how to slip your share of binds. But he's no Houdini. He's not getting out of this jacket any time soon. 

Suddenly, there's a heavy vibration under his feet, and he's just able to tense before a hand wraps itself around his chin, softer than what Dick was expecting, and forces his face to look slightly upwards. 

He just manages to repress a jump when the sound of static erupts in his ear. Unexpected. Interesting. The static shifts into words. Was… a small communication device stuffed into his bound ears? 

"Hello, Nightwing," says the voice. Male. Young, maybe Bruce's age. Calm. Gentle. Like he's making a genuine greeting. "Nod if you can hear me."

Dick doesn't nod. Maybe, if he pretends this rather clever idea for communication while he's deafened doesn't actually work, his captor will take the tape off from his face and Dick would be able to actually see where he is. 

His captor waits a second, then sighs. "I want to help you, and I can't if you don't cooperate."

Dick has to resist frowning or scowling. What is this guy playing at? Normally, by now, bad guys are beating him up and torturing him. 

The man hums and Dick jerks his chin away, curling up defensively when the man simply lets go. 

The static chirps in his ear. "I see you want to be stubborn. But that's okay. I'll be back later, with food too. Try to think about working with me next time."

Then the static leaves, as does the presence of the man. Dick doesn't hear any closing doors, or see anyone walking away, but he's pretty sure he's alone now.

He swallows. That was weird. 

He takes a second to calm his heart and quiet his head. He can't think about what his captor wants and what ploy they're playing at. He has to escape before something more happens. He tugs on the straight jacket sleeves, choking off his growls of frustration when he goes nowhere quickly.

-o-o-o-o-

Hours pass. Enough hours to where his lips feel chapped and his stomach growls. His tailbone aches, sitting against the wall like this, but he doesn't want to purposely place himself in a more vulnerable position. He can only be grateful that he doesn't need to use the restroom- and nevermind. Now that he's thinking about it he does kinda need to go. 

Great. This is just great. Now that strap growing right between his legs is going to be so much more  _ fun _ to deal with. 

Just great. 

Loud static erupts in his ears suddenly, and he could hardly repress the flinch at the sudden noise within the hours of silence he's been stewing in for the past several hours. He grinds his jaw as the same voice as before speaks up, the tone way to smug and happy for Dick's tastes. 

"Ah, so you do hear me!" 

Dick wants to ignore him. But clearly this man is confident that Dick can hear him and Dick really needs to find out what's going on. 

"Who are you?" Dick growls, bunching his hands into fists within the sleeves of the straight jacket. "What do you want?"

"Oh, Nightwing," the man sighs, and Dick has to physically restrain himself from kicking out when a hand places itself on his knees. He tugs backwards though, not wanting to be touched. The man removes his hand and doesn't return it. "I don't want anything, I just need you to eat."

Dick's stomach growls at the mention of food and he hopes it wasn't loud enough to be heard. He's hungry. Thirsty. But Dick knows giving him food isn't the only reason he was captured. "No, there's more than that. Why am I here?"

The man hums. "How about, we make a deal. You eat some of this hot, homemade potato soup I've made and then I can answer some of your questions. How does that sound? Will you let me help you?"

What is  _ up _ with this guy. He sounds... Genuine. And Dick hates that. He sounds like he really does just want to get Dick something to eat, and that he'll honestly answer some questions after hand. But… Dick can't play along. The soup could be drugged. Or these questions of his might not even be answered anyway. And what is this guy going to do? Take off the jacket to give him potato soup? No, he'll most likely attempt to spoon feed Dick and Dick's  _ not _ a fan of that.

So, even though he's hungry, he sets his jaw. "I'm not hungry."

"Yes you are, sweetheart," the man coos, setting something twisting in Dick's gut. "I know you're hungry. Thirsty. And I want to help you." Dick flinches when a hand cups his left jaw, but this time the hand doesn't leave. "Please let me help you."

Dick presses his lips shut. 

The man sighs. 

"Okay, you're okay. I'll let you be for a little longer. The food can just be reheated later, alright?" 

Dick doesn't answer. The static shuts off, and Dick's pretty sure the man leaves. 

He's left alone to lick his lips; to ignore his grumbling stomach and the pooling weight in his bladder. He tugs on the jacket, and becomes even more irritated when it doesn't give like he didn't expect it to.

-o-o-o-o-

It's… several more hours by the time the man returns again, and within that time Dick has found himself barely keeping awake. If it wasn't for his hunger and thirst… if not for the added intense need to relieve himself… he would have fallen asleep out of pure boredom. This entire situation is tearing at his nerves. Fraying him at the core of his tolerance. He hates being rendered completely helpless like this. Starved and deprived. It chills him to the bone even though it's a comfortable temperature in the room. He wants to know what his captors game is—he hates not knowing.

But, even though he cannot help but desperately hate this entire  _ everything _ , it felt almost like a relief when the static once again began in his ear, and the presence of the man returned. Dick stirred slightly, recognizing and almost feeling the man kneeling down to his side. He could easily smell the thick and hot potato soup that he was talking about earlier. He must have brought it down in a closed container or something last time, but left it open this time. 

It made him want to curl up just to lessen the stabbing pain in his empty gut. It's strange how he can be so hungry when he's sure not even 24 hours have passed yet. He's gone days without food before. Weeks with little nibbles here and there during his most intense depressive episodes. But there's something about being forcefully deprived of food that makes it so much more awful than if it was under his own will. 

He wants to eat. He  _ should _ eat. He should keep up his strength. The soup smells so good. Like... Alfred level good. And he's not sure of that's because it might actually be as good as Alfred's famous steak and potato soup he liked to make around Christmas time while they were on a rare vacation at the ski house... or if he’s just so starved that anything would smell heavenly. 

He swallows. The man finally speaks.

"Are you ready to eat?" The man asks.

And why shouldn't he eat? If this guy wanted Dick poisoned or drugged, he could have done it easily hours ago. His stomach gurgles, which in turn puts pressure on his ballooned bladder, which makes him painfully aware of the strap still pressing between his legs. 

He has so many discomforts right now. If he could just ease one...

"If I eat..." Dick begins, and his voice sounds as tired and haggard as he feels. He licks his dry lips. "If I eat, you'll answer my questions?"

There's a moment of silence, then a small chuckle. "That was the deal last time, silly," the man replies, sounding like a parent gently scolding a rambunctious child. Dick didn't like that. "Right now, you just need to eat. If you eat, then we can maybe talk about the future. How does that sound, sweetheart?" 

It doesn't sound good. But Dick is so… hungry. He can either just let himself eat and maybe learn something or just let himself starve and sit alone for more hours until his captor decides to visit him again.

Dick bites his lip. Weighs his options. His rumbling stomach reminds him that he doesn't really have any.

"Okay," he breathes. "Okay."

"I'm happy that you're letting me help you, sweetheart," the man says, then settles down somewhere in front of Dick. "Open up!" 

And as embarrassing as it was, he opened his mouth and allowed the first spoonful of warm soup to enter. 

Now that he's tasted the heavenly smelling soup, he's not really sure if he can confidently say if it was the hunger that made it smell so good. It didn't taste awful… but it definitely tastes… alright? 

He eats the soup in generously small bites, and the man allows time between each bite to let the warmth settle in his gut before offering another spoonful. Soon enough, the soup is gone and the man is gently putting a bottle of water to Dick's chapped mouth with encouraging words that Dick tries not to listen too intently to. 

In a short matter of time, his stomach feels contently full. Thirst a far-off memory. Now… the only problem is his bladder, no doubt about to feel even more full considering he's just drunk down a sizable amount of distilled water. 

"Do you need to use the restroom, honey?" The man asks, and Dick almost flushes. He really, really needs to pee. 

"I need answers," he says instead, because he's complied with eating. Drinking too. He didn't fight or lash out during any of it. 

"Yes," the man says, which shocks Dick. "Yes I suppose you've earned it. One question, sweety. Then we can move on."

Dick took a deep breath. Okay. One question. He can work with this. 

"What do you want from me?"

The man hummed. "I've already answered that, sweetheart, remember? I don't want anything  _ from _ you. I just want to take care of you. You need to be taken care of."

Dick shook his head. "No, I don't need taken care of. I can take care of myself. What's your plan? What's your endgame?"

"I believe I told you just one question, yes?" The man scolds, then exhales. "I know you're scared, sweetheart. But believe me, I have your best interests at heart-"

"Then untie me!" Dick snaps, tugging on the sleeves of the straight jacket. "Let me see you! If all you wanted to do was give me a meal, then you could have just invited me in."

"No," the man says, and for the first time he sounds… angry. Irritated. It almost gives Dick whiplash. "No. You're safer like this. The outside world… it just uses you. No one appreciates you out there. You're all on your own... getting hurt… and I can't watch it any longer. I'm going to take care of you. I'll untie you once you understand that."

Dick clenches his fists within the restraining sleeves. Of course. A complete psycho has taken him. This makes things difficult. 

"You're delusional."

A moment of silence. Then; the constant static in his ear suddenly cut out. Immediately, his anxiety level sparks. He's forgotten how quiet this was. How lonely. He's sat here for hours, and he's already latched onto the only person around to have company with. 

He represses gasp when a hand curls around the side of his head, the palm resting just besides his ear, fingers curling in his hair. 

Then, the hand leaves, and Dick is left sitting in the dark, his bladder swelling to the point of pain. 

"W-" he begins, about to demand a way to relieve his bladder, but he stops himself and let's the presence go. Asking for things will encourage this man's delusions. Which can be just as dangerous as defying. 

He takes a deep breath and forces himself to think of the meditation practices Bruce put him through as a kid. He'll find a way out of this. He always finds a way.

-o-o-o-o-

Just before Dick's bladder is about to explode, a hand falls on his shoulder. He jumps at the contact, almost letting go of his nether problem, but he manages to keep his dignity as the hand squeezes slightly. It must have been an hour, but somehow, he found himself looking forward to that little buzz of static that announced that he'll be able to hear for a little bit. 

It comes, and for the first time in a while, he feels like he can breathe.

"How about we get you to the bathroom, sweety?"

And Dick knows he shouldn't comply. He should ignore it. He shouldn't play into the man's fantasies. But it's either use the restroom or… or wet himself probably in the next five minutes. 

"Fine."

"Now that's not very polite," the man says, back in that scolding voice. "If you want to go, you have to say  _ yes please _ !" 

Dick grinds his teeth. His bladder  _ hurts _ . "Yes  _ please _ ."

"Well, we can work on your tone later…"

Then, unexpectedly, fingers fall to the padded shackles on his ankles. He fights the urge to lash out, but he naturally relaxes when he feels the shackles begin to loosen. 

This… this is good. This is really good. He's letting Dick's  _ legs _ free so he can walk to wherever he needs to go. 

Dick's known how to fight blinded and deafened since he was a kid.

Dick's always known how to use his legs. 

Escape is a hair's breadth away. He can practically taste it. 

The man brings his hands up to Dick's chest, and Dick allows him to get that close. The man grunts as he helps Dick to his feet. It takes a moment for Dick to find his balance, especially with the straight jacket still tightly wrapped around his upper body, but eventually he manages to steady himself on his feet. 

Now or never. 

The strap between his legs pulls awfully as he brings his leg up to kick the man. His foot meets a gut, and he hears an  _ oof _ before the sound in his ears cut out and silence replaces his world. But this is fine. He can work with this. It's a good thing his feet are bare, because it makes it easier to keep track of the man as he stumbles back a few steps.

Dick doesn't allow him to recover. He darts forward and brings his leg up, aiming for the man's head. 

He misses. Which is fine. This is all fine. He just needs to get in  _ one _ good hit. One good hit and he get get out of this pl-

Suddenly, his entire world erupts in pain. A gurgled scream forces its way out of his throat as the familiar feeling of pure electricity sparks from his thigh up to the rest of his body. Everything becomes that. The agonizing sensation of bolts slicing their way through every nerve and cell he has. 

It lasts years. Or maybe moments. When the electricity stops and he's left breathless, choking on his strained breaths, crumpled on the floor. There's stabbing pain in his thigh, and he realizes he's just been tased with some sort of gun that can pierce through the kevlar of his suit. 

How the fuck did this guy manage to get something this high tech?!

However, he doesn't wonder that long, because he's suddenly hit with the mortifying feeling of wetness between his legs, dripping down the inside of his thighs. 

Shit. 

And he can't do anything about it besides groan and try to get his limbs to stop twitching with lingering effects of a taser. 

He doesn't get anywhere far, because hands fall onto his ankles and he's too weak to fight as the shackles are slipped back on with fast and practiced movements. In a matter of seconds, Dick's left on his stomach, his arms awkwardly curled around his chest and his legs now held back together. 

The static in his ear turns on. The man sounds breathless. "That was uncalled for. Apologise, and I'll help you clean up."

Dick feels a spike of anger crawl up his esophagus.  _ Fuck _ . You."

There's a sigh. "I do not know why you insist on struggling. I'm trying to  _ help _ you. If you don't apologise, then I'm going to be forced to leave you here to think about the kind of behavior expected from you."

Dick snarls. Doesn't say anything. Just snarls. He's so angry. And tired. And humiliated. 

The man huffs. "Alright then. It seems you need time to cool down. I'll be back, sweetheart. If you apologise when I return, then I'll have another warm meal for you. And I'll help you get clean."

"Fuck off," Dick snarls. "I don't know what you  _ want- _ " the static shuts off and irrational panic swirls in his stomach. "Let me go! Fuck-  _ let me go _ -" 

Pain stabs into his soaking thighs, but it's not electricity. He feels the stabbing pins of the taser gun leave the meat of his thigh. He swears and kicks, but he hits nothing. 

"Get back! Untie me! Shit-"

There's no answer. Only silence. Dick's pretty sure the man exited the room in the middle of Dick's irrational yelling. He takes a deep breath, swears, and curls up slightly, wrinkling his nose at the smell of his own urine that covers his aching thighs. 

The silence in his ears is deafening. The sudden loneliness crushing. 

He needs to figure out a way out of this. Before he goes completely insane.

-o-o-o-o-

Dick's unsure of how much time has passed. 

Enough for him to feel hungry and thirsty again though. Long enough for the dampness of his lower body to turn dry and irritating. The inside of his legs have been rubbed raw against the fabric of his suit. He hates to think of the kind of rash he probably has. 

But the hunger? The thirst? The discomfort? He can deal with that. That's all  _ okay _ . It's nothing new, even if wetting himself is embarrassing beyond most comparisons. 

What's getting to him is that he's... completely alone. Rendered helpless to the point where he can barely wiggle around on the ground like a worm. He's tired. Exhausted. But terrified to sleep. He hates this… loneliness. The hours spent in isolation with no one to talk to. No one to hold him. 

He could really go for a hug right now.

He almost wishes the man would come back soon so Dick can have  _ someone _ around. 

The hours tick on. And no one comes. Dick curls up tighter, because that's the only thing he can do. He curls up tighter and finds himself pretending the straight jacket was an actual person, holding him as he desperately fought to keep awake. 

-o-o-o-o-

"Oh dear, you poor thing."

Dick wakes to the half pitying, half cooed sentence. He hasn't… realized he's fallen asleep. He's still not sure if he's even awake. Everything… is so woozy. Groggy. A hand goes into his hair and he finds himself leaning into the soft touch. Bruce does this. Bruce does this whenever Dick got himself in trouble, and therefore into a medical cot. This is safe. Dick sighs.

"Are you ready to apologise?" The voice asks, and Dick frowns.

Apologise? What has he… 

Oh. Oh yeah. Dick flinches and tries to scramble back. His captor's hand leaves his hair and Dick tries not to hyperventilate. 

How… how could he seek comfort like that? How could he have let his guard get so low? So quickly? With a panicked, thumping heart he mentally lists everything he knew about Stockholm Syndrome. Could… could it be happening? Could his constant need for a physical comfort be causing this? Could the  _ hours _ spent on end completely alone and helpless have triggered-

No. No Stockholm Syndrome doesn't work that quickly. He's just tired. And probably having some PTSD from his time spent captive with Deathstroke back when the mercenary was more determined to have him as an apprentice. 

Dick's definitely not about to gain any kind of false feelings for his captor any time soon. 

He needs to escape though, and quickly, before they  _ can  _ begin.

Because, no matter how strong you are, if you're forced into any kind of long term captivity like this, it's only a matter of time.

Dick still can't bring himself to truly fight Slade Wilson, and it's been over a decade. 

"Sweetheart?" His captor asks, sounding concerned, and Dick forces himself to keep his breaths even. 

Even though it felt like he couldn't breathe at all.

"W-what do you want?" Dick wheezes. 

The man sighs into his ear. "I have more soup. And some towels to clean you up. Remember the deal I told you?"

Oh. That's right. 

He wants Dick to apologise.

And Dick wants to. Just to get the burning soreness between his legs  _ gone _ . 

But... He doesn't… want this man anywhere near him right now. Not when he's just come down from an internalized panic attack about the fucking  _ Stockholm Syndrome _ . 

But he also doesn't want to be alone again. He's hungry and thirsty and tired despite his apparent nap he's still tired to his  _ bones _ . 

And he doesn't want to be alone. 

And suddenly, the choice is so much harder to make. And maybe it really is just his PTSD with Slade acting up. He doesn't want the company of this man  _ specifically _ . He just wants... Someone. Bruce. Barbara. Jason. Tim. Cass. Steph.  _ Damian _ . And Dick might now know him very well, but Duke would be appreciated too. All of them would be great. Fantastic actually. God, he really wants a hug from every single one of them.

But he doesn't have them. It's definitely been more than a day now. Maybe close to  _ two _ . If they were searching for him… they would have found him by now. 

So he needs to save up his strength. He needs to eat. He can't fight to the fullest of his abilities to escape with an irritated rash between his legs. 

He takes a deep breath, tells himself he's okay, and nods. "I'm... sorry."

"For what?" The man asks and Dick wants to crawl into a hole and die. 

"For… trying to escape."

A sigh. A hand in his hair. Dick forces himself to believe that he didn't immediately flinch away because he's an expert actor. 

"For trying to  _ run _ away," the man corrects. And man, that's manipulative.  _ Gaslighting _ . "Say you're sorry for trying to  _ run _ away."

Dick nods anyways. "I'm sorry for trying… to run away."

"There we go," the hand in his hair gently combs through the strands. "Was that so hard?"

_ Yes _ .

He doesn't answer. The man sounds too happy to care as the smell of potato soup erupts into the air with the pop of a lid. 

Dick allows himself to be fed without complaint. It takes less time than before. He's given more water this time too. 

The food is warm and the water soothing, that by the time they're done he's almost forgotten about the second half of the agreement and fallen into a state of  _ almost  _ unwitting sleep.

He remembers the moment hands land on his knees, going to spread his legs. Immediately, lightning fast thoughts of  _ fight _ or  _ flight  _ invade his mind. 

Fuck. God.  _ Shit _ . The  _ rash _ . 

He didn't… he didn't even  _ think _ of what it would mean to be cleaned up. His suit stretched enough to roll up his legs all the way to his crotch, but the thought of hands touching him in those places sent his heart haywire. 

"Wait-" he wheezes, scooting back and forcing his legs closed. Because know what? He can deal. He'll live. He doesn't need anyone fondling any sensitive parts of his lower body, even if it's to clean off any uncomfortable, dried, stench ridden messes. "Stop!"

"I know, it’s okay" the man tuts. "It's only going to hurt more, sweetheart. It has to get clean."

"Don't touch me!" Dick kicks out, panic flaring in a whole new way. A whole new way that he hasn't felt in a fucking long ass time. A whole new way that makes his skin feel wet with rain water. Warm with blood. Too cold with the wind. On fire with the trailing hands and body straddling him around his hips.

He tries to keep his legs closed, but the man digs his fingers into Dick's sore thigh where the puncture wounds of the taser gun were and soon Dick finds himself pinned on his back, foot on the tether between his ankle cuffs, a body between his knees, and hands tugging at the hemlines of his suit around his legs.

Dick chokes on his panic now, almost flashing back to the rain dripping on the roof of Blockbuster's building, the harsh yellow light of the roof entrance reflecting like melting stars. 

He takes a gasping breath, digging the nails of his fingers into his palms, focusing on the body between his spread legs and how easy it should be to bring his legs up and choke the life out of his captor. This guy wants to touch his thighs so much, he can touch them with his concave windpipe. 

He almost does so, but then the man tuts and presses something against his leg. "Please calm down, sweetie. I don't want to punish you again."

The taser. Of course he has the taser. 

A hiccup escapes his throat without his permission as he slowly forces himself to lay back. He could fight. He could move anyways and at least go down  _ fighting _ . But, if he's tasered this whole experience will be so much  _ worse _ and he… he just wants to go to sleep. He just wants to go home.

He doesn't know how to get out of this one. He doesn't know what he should  _ do _ with this one. Nothing, no precautionary plan, no in-case-of's, no lesson that he's had stuffed in his brain since his suit was red, green, and yellow instead of black and blue has taught him how to deal with these kinds of villains. The kinds that did things not for any material gain, but because they genuinely felt like they  _ needed _ to. 

Dick knew, as the material of his pants were finally bunched up to his groin, that if his knuckles were free he'd be biting teeth marks into them just to keep from screaming, especially as a warm, wet cloth begins to rub his now exposed skin. 

He hated this. He hated this. He hated this hated this hated this so fucking much. It was all he could focus on. How much he hated this. How much he hated the rough fibers of the cloth scraping against his sensitive thighs. How much he hated the water dripping down towards his crotch. How much he hated the bare hand on his other leg, keeping his legs spread. How much he hated being so helpless to a taser pressed into his side. 

He didn't want this. He thought he could get over it. The feeling of someone between his legs, him pressed on his back, hands where they shouldn't be. He thought that if he pretended it didn't bother him, that it didn't send him back, he could still have fun in bed. He could still enjoy the things he did with the people he came to love enough to intrust that side of himself to. 

Now, he's reminded of how much he never wants to be touched again. 

Which is entirely  _ not _ a typical Dick Grayson thought. 

He's so focused on how much he absolutely loathes and hates everyone and everything and himself included that he hardly even notices that it’s done until he’s curled up on his side, the water on his thighs beginning to cool, tightened up in the smallest ball he could get into with the restraints. 

He gasps. It's stuttered. Wet. 

Wet. Why...?

"It's okay sweetheart," the man says, bringing his hand into Dick's hair and Dick wants to unravel. "I know it was scary. Don't cry. Let's calm down-"

Crying. Dick's crying. 

How…

How pathetic.

Has he already broken? Brought down to tears because of a little loneliness, homesickness, and unwelcome touches? And the thing is, he doesn't even think more than a day or two has passed. 

And he tries to tell himself everyone has an achilles heel. With Bruce, it's when his family is threatened. With Jason, it's crowbars. With Tim, it's being left behind. With Cass it's a morally compromising decision. With Duke it's the crazy unknown. With Damian, it's his past. 

Dick's always told himself his achilles heel was always baseball bats. Or a threatened circus. Or maybe even just tiny, white, powdery pills designed to paralyze the heart. 

But it's really always been being rendered helpless. 

Helpless to move. Helpless to see. Helpless to hear. Helpless to fight. 

Helpless to push the body on top of him off before they violate him.

And he's crying. He's sobbing. He's curled up and pathetically weeping as the man coos and hushes and whispers comforts as he brushes his hair like Bruce had always used to. 

He didn't even do anything  _ bad _ to Dick. He didn't touch any private parts, he didn't linger in his touches. He had worked with a singular goal just to clean up the horrible, degrading mess between his legs and left it at that. 

And he knows triggers can be a finicky thing. The smallest, barely related item can set off the trauma that's been hiding deep under his skin for so long. 

But he still feels stupid. Childish. Impulsive and like he's overreacted. 

He feels like he'd rather sink into the ground and just… not exist. Not die. Never die. Just…  _ stop _ .

He doesn't know how long he lays there, a hand in his hair and whispered comforts in his ear, tears streaming down his face. All he knows is that eventually his exhaustion wins over him. Sinks it's claws in. Grabs his lashes like they're curtains and drags them down. 

He doesn't notice when he eventually falls asleep. Only that everything blessedly… stops.

-o-o-o-o-

Dick doesn't know how much more time passes. Only that it  _ does _ . It  _ does _ and a whole lot of it ticks away. The man works Dick into a reluctant routine. Leaving him in deafness and darkness until it's time to eat—mostly that shockingly good but getting boring potato soup, replaced here and there with random other meals that the man must have had left overs of—or use the restroom. Using the restroom for the first time in this current captive episode was almost as traumatic as getting… cleaned. There’s apparently a bucket not too far from where Dick is normally laying, which digs at Dick's brain with the question of  _ how _ big is the room anyway? The only issue is that, restrained as he was, he couldn't pull down his pants and… aim. 

But as the days definitely began to number, he didn't necessarily get used to it, but numb was a good synonym. 

He feels dirty. Abused. Used to the point of uselessness. 

And so very alone. So alone that every time the man leaves, Dick's more and more tempted to beg him to stay a little longer. 

And he can definitely tell that the beginnings of Stockholm Syndrome are showing in his psyche. Which is strange. To know you're being brainwashed. Fully aware of it. 

Yet being helpless to your own thoughts and feelings. Helpless to make it not matter. Trapped in your own body, watching helplessly as everything in your brain slowly begins to betray you. 

And Dick knows he doesn't care for his current captor. Not in the way Dick cared about Slade. Dick doesn't seek out his touch or his comforts like he used to with Slade; desperately do all that he could to get Slade to tell him he did a  _ good job _ . He didn't realize how deep in that hole he was until it was made possible for Dick to finally escape and he was finally faced with the option that was fighting for his freedom. 

It took every cell in his body to fight Slade down towards the point Slade had to retreat. 

It still takes every cell in his body to treat the man like an actual villain, and not some could-have-been father. 

But his current captor? This unknown man who visits him after hours of isolation, insists he's "taking care" of him? Dick couldn't care less about him.

He's touched starved. That's all. 

That's all.

The time slips away like fine silk on dry skin. Dick doesn't cry again, not even when the man apologises before drugging him to the point he's barely conscious so he could safely strip him out of his suit and jacket to wash him in a tub of lukewarm water. He could barely hold onto his thoughts, let alone remember the entire experience. But he knows he didn't cry. 

Because he cries in his nightmares now. Cries in the quiet hours he's alone. 

Because, at least, when he's being bathed and touched in ways that send every fiber of his being reeling with the need to  _ get _ away, he’s not alone.

He hates being alone. 

And yet, time ticks by. He's given food. Taken to the restroom. Bathed every so often. Filled with mind numbing hours and hours and hours of nothing in-between. 

This lasts forever. 

Though, he finds out, once the pounding of multiple pairs of feet erupts around him and hands grab at the tape around his eyes to return his vision  _ and _ hearing, he finds it's been about two weeks.

The first face he sees is Tim. 

Then, he passes out from relief. He passes out from fear too, fear that it’s all a dream. 

But, the next time he wakes, he wakes in a bed at the hospital, in a medical gown and the lights dimmed low to not agitate his sensitive eyes. There's a hand in his hair, and for a moment he's terrified it's  _ the _ man. But then he blinks his eyes and sees for the first time in forever, and what he sees is a snoring Bruce Wayne, leaning over the edge of the medical cot with his limp hand in his hair like he's always done. 

Dick doesn't close his eyes. He focuses on Bruce's breathing and the small beeps of his heart on the monitor besides him. He slides his gaze to his fingers. His thin fingers and bony wrists which are laying against his blanket covered legs, of which look thinner than what he remembered. 

He doesn't feel starved. But he's sure he looks it. 

He doesn't close his eyes. Because if he does, the hand in his hair will no longer be comforting. It will be vile.

The stay at the hospital isn't as long as it could have been. 

Physically, he's better than what he could have been.

Mentally though? Dick feels like he's taken one hit too many to his stability. Damian tries to hug him, and Dick almost falls over panicking because Damian's short and his arms wrap around his waist, his chest bumping into his hips, unknowingly pressing into places he doesn't  _ want _ touched. 

He bought a nightlight. And a fan. Just to keep his room bright enough to see and loud enough to hear. Enough visual and noise to convince him he's alive. 

Sleep comes like the rabbit on Alice In Wonderland. 

Nightmares come fashionably  _ on time _ .

And he doesn't feel himself getting better. Even when he's back to a healthy weight and has been out of captivity longer than he's been there. The man who tortured him is in jail, to be tried privately with judges the Justice League trusted. Dick's identity won't be exposed to the public, but it was only a matter of time before it got out that Nightwing was tortured, humiliated, and held captive.

Only a matter of time… 

But that… Dick can live with this. Because he's alive. And  _ alive  _ meant he can get better. And… and his family saved him. He’s not alone anymore.

He will get better. 

No matter how long it takes. This will all just become a story to be filed in the same folders as all the other times he's been tortured or kidnapped. 

He'll get over this. 

Dick always gets over these things. 

He just wishes it didn't sound so sad, no matter how true that statement is. 

**Author's Note:**

> anyone need a cup of hot chocolate? a blanket?
> 
> thanks for reading! please scream at me in the comments. im screaming too.


End file.
